The Shadows of the Force
by Alexian Cale
Summary: ON INDEFINITE HIATUS! Corruption and secession threaten to destroy the Old Republic as a freshly promoted Jedi Master and his reckless new apprentice battle threats visible and hidden, confront their deepest passions, and navigate an uncertain future.
1. Prologue

**Note:** _Shadows of the Force _is the product of months of collaboration and discussion with various users on various forums. We discussed the ways in which the central Star Wars saga could be rewritten so as to improve continuity, character development, and story points while remaining true to the overarching precepts of George Lucas's epic tale. This is but a humble attempt to do just that, taking months of discussion and putting it to use. What you see before you is very much a **work-in-progress**: It is not completed. It's not even close. I have worked on this project for a long time, but it has fallen victim to my anal retentive, perfectionist demands. Chapter after chapter after chapter has been outlined, written, and ultimately scrapped by me because I don't feel it's worth reading. Posting it here for your entertainment and feedback will hopefully be the impetus needed for me to complete it.

**Disclaimer:** This is a semi-original reworking of an already established story, the characters and setting of which are created and owned by George Lucas and the great minds of LucasFilm. This work is not for profit, no money is exchanging hands, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**The Shadows of the Force**

Crisis now threatens a millennium of peace. Disaffected with perceived corruption in the government, Dooku, the charismatic Count of Serenno and former Jedi Master, has established a confederacy of independent systems and has persuaded countless worlds to secede from the Republic.

The Republic Congress, unwilling to relinquish these planets and divide the union, has outlawed secession and mobilized its armies to quell uprisings throughout the galaxy as the unscrupulous Chancellor Valorum, fearing for his vulnerable reputation, has pressured the venerable Jedi order into the conflict. Negotiations continue to fail and, with no end in sight, many fear that the result will be nothing other than galactic war.

Onto this delicate stage steps three key players: the freshly minted Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, his rebellious apprentice, Anakin Skywalker, and a mild-mannered Senator named Palpatine. Together, in these perilous times, the decisions made by these three individuals will shape the fate of an entire galaxy.

**Prologue**:

_Separatist-occupied Thule_

Situated deep within the vast expanse of space known as the Outer Rim, the planet Thule had earned an unpleasant reputation for its ugly appearance and hostile climate; its surface was practically lifeless, hopelessly charred and scorched by perpetual lightning storms and rendered as barren as an infertile womb by cyclical droughts and ever changing but always vicious weather patterns. But, tainted just as irrevocably as its charmless physical attributes, was Thule's history. In times past, it had served as a common fixture and prominent member of the various Sith empires. The Sith would come and go, rise up and be defeated by the Republic on many occasion, but it never changed: when the galaxy's deadliest cult of Force users would return, Thule always welcomed them with open arms. As such, the planet had seen and suffered the very worst of war. The last time, an infuriated Republic countered with a devastating series of strikes and invasions—Thule's defenses were subsequently obliterated, its government destroyed, and most of its population systematically imprisoned and relocated; those who resisted were killed and those who escaped were driven deeper into the abyss of space. Thoroughly cowed and conquered, Thule was abandoned by the Republic and existed as a wounded, irretrievably damaged world—a cautionary tale for those who would challenge the Republic's sovereignty and test its patience.

As the galaxy turned its eyes to more important matters, Thule drifted in its lonely orbit, forgotten.

That is, until the Separatist Alliance had shown up and claimed it three months ago.

It had been an amusingly simple task, which the fleet commanders found ironic for a world with such a rich history of dissidence as Thule; the Republic, convinced by centuries of silence that the world had been utterly pacified, left no task force to maintain the subjugation. It was an irresponsible decision that the Separatists had both expected and sincerely appreciated. Not that it mattered: The Separatist fleet, numbering thirteen capital ships, was more than enough to deal with a token planetary task force and would have succeeded in its mission one way or another. The ships—five _Providence_-class destroyers and eight _Munificent_-class frigates—deployed in specific locations for maximum coverage, anticipating potential gateways from which an unauthorized ship might emerge, and parked themselves in geosynchronous orbit.

Some would say the months since had been pleasantly peaceful; Asajj Ventress would say that they had been ruthlessly boring.

As her _Sheathipede_-class transport shuttle escaped the bowels of the Separatist flagship and zoomed towards the surface with great haste, Ventress wondered why her Master had referred to her task of overseeing this operation as "an honor." Did men, even great men such as he, find such trivial tasks to be delightful? Or, perhaps, had he simply been indulging in doublespeak—assigning her, his supposedly prized champion, with a mission well below her paygrade and well outside her realm of expertise.

As the shuttle ripped another hole in Thule's broken, turgid atmosphere, Ventress eyed the pair of identically curved lightsabers hooked to her belt. Yes, her particular skillset lay well beyond what this operation called for, as evidenced by the lack of mangled corpses. She was a fighter, a warrior, a _killer_ and they both knew it. Anywhere other than the battlefield, she felt insecure. It was more than just being out of place, it was an overwhelming sense of feeling inappropriate. Dirty, even.

If he had been here, her Master would have told her that there was no use in complaining, verbally or mentally, given his own stubborn nature. Orders were orders, after all.

The physical trembling that was the shuttle touching down jarred Ventress out of her musings.

"Ma'am," sealed within the cockpit, the pilot's voice emanated from the hull's speakers. "We've arrived."

She sighed a single word in response:

"Finally."

The exit ramp hadn't completed its slow stretch onto the cold stone before Ventress's impatient stride reached the end of it. She hopped off the yawning ramp and continued her relentless march, blitzing past the detachment of brown-clothed soldiers that served as her honor guard and escort. She barely acknowledged the frequent flashes of light—Thule's persistent thunderstorms were so common that she speculated the energy could sustain half the Core Worlds—but let her eyes drift to the barren, rocky landscape.

An inarticulate buzzing reached Ventress's ears, likely the effects of such relentless lightning. Her eyes spotted dozens of gargantuan machines and vehicles adorned with a spectrum of coned drills, laser projectors, and a slew of mining equipment, but she knew that there were hundreds more in the surrounding regions. Asajj Ventress, commanding an _excavation_? Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Her pace quickened as the buzzing became more pronounced, like a swarm of persistent insects approaching her ear. She stalked the outside of the excavation zone like a caged animal. The drills had certainly been busy; Thule was looking less like a planet and more like a cluster of barely connected rocks.

But was it enough? Had the workers located the artifact that her Master so desperately sought?

It was only then that the buzzing, louder than ever, sonically morphed into something semi-articulate: her last name. An insect—some sort of bug native to Thule—sophisticated enough to attempt Galactic Basic? Intrigued, Ventress tore her eyes from the digsite and glanced over her shoulder.

The intrigue retreated as quickly as it had came and her eyes returned to the excavation zone.

"Oh, you. How long have you been talking?"

Natalus Telspin, the excavation supervisor and Ventress's nominal second-in-command on this particular operation, clenched his fists and pressed his lips together in a fine line.

"Since you first touched down, _ma'am_. Perhaps if you paid attention—"

Ventress might not have ranked oratory among her most prized skills, but she was sufficiently versed in speech to detect insolence. On reflex, her right hand went to one of the cold handles dangling from her waist.

"Wanna run that by me again, Commander?"

"Er—on second thought, it-it was my fault. I, uh, I definitely could have spoken louder or tapped you on the shoulder or—"

"That might have cost you the offending finger," drawled Ventress. "Or perhaps the entire hand."

Fairly tame, but then her Master had demanded that casualties be kept to a minimal. Telspin fell silent, perhaps because he had become aware of how _very_ lucky he was that Ventress was a loyal disciple.

"Let's shift gears, Commander," offered Ventress, an edge creeping into her voice. "You whisk me away from the comforts of the flagship to bring me down to this wretched world for what I _hope_ is a good reason. Suppose we get to you telling me what that reason is?"

"We, uh, we've found something."

Ventress's heart skipped a beat, interrupting a rather laconic pace.

"_Something_?"

"A rock, ma'am," Before Ventress could interrupt, Telspin added hurriedly: "More specifically, an obelisk. It matches the descriptions closely. It's bigger than the picture suggests, but the symbols are the same. The archaeologists are examining it now."

Ventress whirled on her heel to face the intimidated commander.

"Show me."

The obelisk was saturated in light from half a dozen powerful spotlights arrayed in a semi circle around it. Four archaeologists—a human female, Twi'lek male, a Nautolan female, and a Rodian of unknown gender (Ventress couldn't tell from its features and didn't care enough to find out)—were clustered around the object, peering closely at the countless engraved markings and symbols on its ancient surface.

When Telspin produced the rendering of the obelisk, Ventress tore it from his hands and her eyes darted from the paper to the real thing three or four times before shoving it back to the startled commander.

"Looks like it to me."

"The team assembled by the leadership hasn't completed its examination, yet, ma'am," reminded Telspin, gently. "But you're probably right—"

Ventress turned her head an inch in his direction. "_Probably_?"

"Uh..."

She smirked and reached out a long, thin arm to smack the young commander on the back. Well beyond unsettled and quickly approaching terrified, Telspin stumbled forward a few steps.

"Lighten up."

Sufficiently cowed, Telspin offered no response. Ventress didn't bother waiting for one, stepping forward, deeper into the excavation pit in which the obelisk sat. She stepped into the pool of light, flinching momentarily, and approached the enthralled archaeologists.

"What's the verdict, ladies and gentlemen," began Ventress, indicating the Rodian, "and, uh, whatever _you_ are?"

The scientists, each of whom seemed so enamored with their finding that they weren't disturbed in the slightest by Ventress, murmured to themselves for a several seconds before answering the pale warrior.

"We all agree," offered the apparent spokesperson, the human female, "that this is definitely the object you seek. The markings are unlike any we've found on the other pieces—there's no doubt that they're an identical match to the rendering you provided us."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely, ma'am," piped up the Twi'lek male. "In fact, we can't wait to examine the obelisk further—in a much more, uh, secure environment, of course."

"Fantastic," drolled Ventress. "Excuse me for a moment."

She offered an unpleasant smile and turned, walking away from the obelisk and past Telspin—who was still rooted to the spot in abject terror.

Sufficiently removed from prying ears, Ventress reached into the depths of her dark, form fitting battle suit and retrieved a small holo-comm. disk from a hidden pocket. Pressing the activation button, she knelt and bowed her head. After a moment, her Master's commanding baritone caressed her ears.

"What is it, child?"

"The operation is a success, Master," Ventress explained. "We've found it."

There was a pause before he reponded. "Lift me higher."

Ventress complied, raising the hand holding her Master's hologram a few more inches.

"Ah, yes," her Master's voice usually modulated betrayed the shadow of excitement. "Excellent. _Excellent_. Has it been verified?"

"Yes, Master. All four of the experts you placed at my disposal agree."

"Very good, child. Very good. Then we are on schedule."

Ventress bowed her head lower before responding: "What are you orders?"

"The obelisk is important, but it ultimately, it is just one of the final pieces. We must begin _assembling_ the puzzle itself. Begin removing the components and prepare them for transport."

"Yes, my Master," said Ventress, eager to conclude the mission.

"Oh, and Asajj? We can't afford the Republic catching wind of this little archaeological finding. Get rid of the experts and the supervisor, but I would have you spare the workers—their deaths aren't so necessary."

It was a reward, she knew: Ventress licked her lips in anticipation. "Thank you, my Master."

The commanding voice took a slightly lighter tone, as if sharing a private joke. "Yes, I thought you might like that. Finish your assignment and contact me afterwards."

Ventress lifted her head as the hologram vanished with barely-restrained enthusiasm and pocketed the holo comm. Her long, pale fingers closed over curved handles on her belt. At last, it was time to demonstrate her true talent.

Igniting the lightsabers, Ventress sprang into motion, moving through the air like a deranged banshee.

Her victims' screams echoed throughout the cavern, the carnage witnessed only by a silent, ancient obelisk.

**Commentary: **This marks the introduction of Asajj Ventress, a Force-wielding assassin whose allegiance is to the dark side of the Force. In extant EU, Ventress is the not-so-secret disciple of Count Dooku. Though her original backstory has been retconned by _The Clone Wars_ cartoon, her portrayal is that of a mentally unstable killer whose obsession with Jedi is punctuated by impulsive acts of violence. You will find that this portrayal of her doesn't seem to deviate too far from the mark, but hopefully new elements of Ventress's personality will be explored within this story to make her a more convincing character; hopefully the reader will relate with her boredom and begin to see her as a person (a wicked, wicked person, of course).

For those of you who might notice or care, I try to be as tender as humanly possible with details. Having set aside creative writing in favor of more analytical, objective writing in the past few years, I realize that it is would be quite easy for me to slip into "info dumps" that would span thousands of words to describe something that is ultimately trivial to the story. I didn't bother describing the shape of the Separatist vessels because many of us who have seen the films, watched the TV show, or flipped through the comics (or use Wookieepedia) have _seen_ these ships and, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. For characters and settings, I try to parcel out descriptions as the text goes on, leaving enough ambiguous for you all to make up your own minds about these elements.

I hope you all will take note of the fact that Ventress's Master ordered her to spare the Separatist miners and workers who unearthed the obelisk. I found this to be important because it suggests that her superiors aren't necessarily creatures of pure evil.

**Size & Scale:** The Separatist fleet numbers thirteen capital ships in what is repeatedly suggested to be an incredibly minor task force. The Separatists wish to hold Thule without arousing any suspicion from the planet's neighbors or from the Republic proper, hence the miniscule number of ships, so just imagine how large an actual battle fleet might be.

**Please read, enjoy, and never pull your punches with the reviews! Thank you!**


	2. One

**Chapter One**  
_Jedi Headquarters, Coruscant_

"There's no question that your record is anything short of impeccable, Obi-Wan."

Standing in the illustrious tower of the Jedi High Council, surrounded by all twelve ranking members of that august body, Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself drawing on all of his years as a Jedi Knight—every painstaking lesson, every single second of lightsaber training, all of his junior trips and pilgrimages to distant worlds strong in the Force—to keep his knees from buckling with anticipation; there was something about being under the scrutiny of these Masters, particularly Mace Windu—the Mace Windu, the unofficial leader of the order, student of Yoda, peer of Dooku (though the rumor was that you were to never mention that name to Windu; he, allegedly, did not take the Count's resignation well)—that was more terrifying than being surrounded by a pack of rabid and particularly hungry rancors… a situation Obi-Wan had found himself in on more than one occasion. Still, he accepted this remark at face value and forced himself (with a second-nature mental smirk at the pun) to meet the legendary Master's perceptive gaze.

"Thank you, Master Fisto," said Obi-Wan to the tentacle-haired Nautolan. He inhaled deeply. "I realize that, in my youth, I was… a little… rebellious—"

"Stop right there, Kenobi," interrupted the gruff, but good-natured tones of the Zabrak Master, Agen Kolar. "We know it wasn't personal. Frankly, we expected _nothing_ less from Qui-Gon Jinn's prized disciple."

"Agreed," boomed Windu, in a rare moment of levity. Shaven-headed, dark skinned, and physically powerful beyond what his middle age would suggest, Windu was one of the standards for intimidation in the order. And, what was that? A _smile_? Obi-Wan's eyebrows momentarily struggled with the rest of his body as they tried, with vigor, to jump clean off his face.

"Still, I know I was _problematic_ at times—"

"Oh, you don't have to tell _us_ twice," grumbled Ki-Adi-Mundi. He leaned his tall, cone-shaped head in Kit Fisto's direction. "Do you remember the time he pulled the fire alarms during sparring practice? _All_ of the fire alarms in the east wing?"

Fisto laughed openly. "Or the time he painted Windu's shuttle hot pink?"

Windu's smile vanished suddenly and he stared at Obi-Wan, anger and disbelief merging openly on his face. "That was _you_?"

Obi-Wan's jaw sprang open. He hadn't known? Horrified, he leaned back and brought up his hands as if to fend the Jedi Master off from an inevitable attack. "Master Windu, I—"

"Or, best yet," interrupted the garbled vocabulator of the intimidating Kel Dor Master, Plo Koon, "the time that he contacted the PleasureZone brothel and convinced them to, er... _service_ out to the order at a discounted rate—"

"With respect, I didn't find that one especially funny," interjected the sultry voice of the beautiful Togruta Shaak Ti. Like Windu, she fixed Obi-Wan with a glare and arched one delicate eyebrow. "Particularly since, on the way out, they assumed _I_ was one of _them_."

"Master Ti, a thousand apolo—"

"Well, Shaak, when you dress the way that you do…" Shaak Ti turned her head slowly in Kit Fisto's direction, who quickly trailed off and glanced away. "Not that I'm complaining, of course. It suits you your lovely—"

"Enough."

Windu rarely raised his voice, and today was no exception; his was the tone of a patient, but firm father reigning in his overly excited children. The rest of the Council fell silent, but the smiles on their faces endured. Mollified, Windu leaned back and tilted his head thoughtfully to Obi-Wan.

"No need to look so mortified, Obi-Wan," he offered, smiling pleasantly. "Contrary to what the current crisis might say of us, the order knows—and seeks to promote—forgiveness. Even then, consider your misdeeds: Activating the east wing's fire alarms was an impressive act of Force mastery—this is not a small building, after all; the incident with the prostitutes demonstrated a keen, if not michievious, sense of negotiation on your part; and, last but not least, painting _my_ shuttle hot pink was possibly the greatest act of bravery that I've seen in another individual."

He stopped and leaned forward in his chair, the smile remaining but his eyes narrowing. "Though I would caution you from trying it again."

"Master Windu—Masters, all of you—I assure you all that those days are long behind me," placated Obi-Wan. He chewed on his lip before continuing, formulating his assurances. "I long ago realized how fortunate I was that I wasn't expelled from the order. My services and experiences since those days forced me to one conclusion: a Jedi Knight who is not disciplined is scarcely a Jedi Knight at all."

Into Obi-Wan's mind came the memories: the events of the Clone Wars, roughly fifteen years before. He remembered being deployed with white armored clones on the sands of too many distant worlds, striking out at their demented brothers; he recalled wielding his lightsaber with superhuman efficiency, robbing his enemy of arm, and leg, and head by the dozens; he couldn't remember how many bodies he'd left in his wake—there always seemed to be a hundred more around the corner, waiting to be killed by him—

"Your conduct in the Clone Wars was exemplary, Obi-Wan," said Kolar, shrewdly perceiving the nature of Obi-Wan's thoughts. "During the conflict, you completed the evolution from rebellious student to dedicated champion. You proved your worth far more than once; you reaffirmed this Council's decision to retain your commission in the order. Never worry about that."

The words were invigorating; Obi-Wan exhaled, smiled, and adopted a more confident posture as the uneasy memories fled his mind.

"Your services to the order and Republic proper as a negotiator have also not gone unnoticed," continued Windu. "Thirteen star systems in the Outer Rim, once in negotiation with the Separatists, reaffirmed their allegiance to the Senate after dialogue with you."

Obi-Wan looked away, suddenly fixated with Master Ti's delicate foot and trying to force the surge of blood from his face. "I only wish I could have done better, Masters. Thirteen is nothing compared to the countless thousands that have already flocked to Doo—" Obi-Wan noticed Windu's head drop slightly at that "—I mean… the Separatists."

"It's just the beginning, Master Kenobi." Shaak Ti clarified, gently. "A good one, if I may say so."

"In conclusion, the members of this Council have viewed your record and your history," began Windu, with finality. "We're aware of your complicated upbringing in the order; we're aware of your considerable services in the time since. You've demonstrated promising skills as a defender, negotiator, and member of the Jedi order. You are hereby granted the rank and responsibilities of a Jedi Master."

Obi-Wan's eyes screwed shut, compelled by both excitement and acceptance. After all those years of service, dedication, and horror—he'd at last arrived.

"Masters, you have no id—thank you," stammered Obi-Wan. "From the bottom of my heart, truly—this is something I've sought for a long time."

"There's no doubt that you've earned it, _Master_ Kenobi," said Windu. The Jedi leader lifted his body from his chair and moved to stand before Obi-Wan. "Congratulations, not only will Qui-Gon be proud of you, but I know Yoda would be as well."

Obi-Wan's chin lifted higher at the mention of Yoda, his first instructor and possibly the most respected Jedi Master of the past millennium, who had disappeared years ago in a self-imposed pilgrimage to uncharted worlds on a quest to explore the depths of the Force. He had been incommunicado for over a decade.

"And now it's time for you to meet your pupil."

Shock detonated within him and pulsed throughout Obi-Wan's body like a seismic bomb at Windu's words. "Pupil?"

"Of course, Master Kenobi," said Windu, and Obi-Wan was dimly aware of Windu's powerful arm snaking across his shoulders in a comradely squeeze. "A Master must have an apprentice; surely you're aware."

Windu turned Obi-Wan around and directed him towards the tower's elevator entrance, the meeting apparently concluded. Obi-Wan's head spun left and right, trying to catch glances of the rest of the Council, most of whom were smiling at his confusion.

"Yes, but—but isn't there some sort of _process_ for selection?"

"Usually," was Windu's simple reply. Entering the elevator, he jabbed a button and turned to look at Obi-Wan. "But, in your case, we made an exception. The Council already had a _specific_ protégé in mind; we're going to meet him now."

Confused with such a casual disregard for ancient tradition, Obi-Wan's eyes shifted as he considered the situation and its meaning, but Windu had fallen silent and showed no signs of explaining further and the Force offered no answers. As the doors closed, Obi-Wan heard an explosive noise resonate from back inside the Council chamber.

It was only when he was six stories down that, in his stupor, he identified what it was.

Laughter.

* * *

Given the nature and potential wartime responsibilities of a Jedi Knight, the order had long since considered lightsaber instruction to be one of the most essential components of the Jedi curriculum. The typical Jedi Knight would begin his or her education with the iconic weapon around the age of five. Armed with training lightsabers—which burned at several magnitudes lower than the blade's lethal optimum—young Knights would be taught beginner's techniques: the deflection of blaster bolts and projectile weapons, the use of precognition, and the requisite conditioning that enabled a Jedi to abandon reliance on his or her physical senses to rely on the supernatural clarity afforded by the Force.

As a Knight began to age, the techniques would consequently become more advanced. Eventually, each Jedi would begin combat instruction, where they would develop combat technique—the vast sequence of moves and forms that they could rely on if they were ever called upon to lift their lightsaber against another individual in defense of the Republic or of themselves. Finally, in adolescence, they would be sorted into classes and trained by veteran combatants and distinguished Masters in the ancient art of lightsaber dueling.

Jedi Knights required—and were given—many years to hone their abilities and refine their individual technique before they were assigned a Master, who would offer more personalized instruction.

But, throughout all of this training, the Force was key. As all Jedi knew, someone without Force sensitivity might become as gifted a swordsman as any Jedi Master in terms of sheer technique, but without the ability to draw upon the energy field to enhance strength, speed, reflexes, to gain superhuman insight and precognition, and to tap into its unlimited reservoir for sustained energy, most non-Force sensitives could never hope to defeat a fully trained Jedi Knight.

Because the Force is always stronger in some individuals than others, Jedi Knights were often grouped into classes based on their relative levels of skill. Those relative few—a few thousand in total—who displayed a prodigious talent, even amongst Jedi, for the way of the blade, were assigned advanced classes under the order's most experienced duelists.

With the disappearance of Yoda, advancement of Mace Windu, and resignation of Count Dooku, Jedi Master Cin Drallig was perhaps the Jedi order's most refined dueling instructor. He was also a rarity: a grizzled war hero who witnessed the worst horrors of the Clone Wars and managed to retain the ability to smile.

Anakin Skywalker rather liked Drallig, appreciating both his warm nature and his wise instruction, but that didn't stop him from feeling surprisingly bored with today's class.

Sitting on the floor, ten feet from the expansive dueling mat, and surrounded by dozens of his likely equally bored peers, Anakin's hand—tucked firmly under his chin—was about the only thing keeping him from dropping his head and succumbing to the seductive fatigue gnawing at his consciousness.

He flicked his eyes lazily to the far side of the mat, watching as Ferus Olin—considered by many to be one of the order's most gifted students—wielded a blue and green lightsaber against his two opponents: a Zabrak male whose name escaped him and a human girl around his age with a prominent, and most appealing, backside.

Anakin was alert enough to deduce that Olin was winning the duel; despite possessing great skill of their own, the Zabrak and the human were simply no match for Olin's technique—Anakin blinked and witnessed Ferus, initially on the defensive, leap over their heads in a sudden move. Though both whirled on their feet as quickly as they could, Ferus was swinging his blades in an attack before his feet had even touched the ground, hammering their defenses with lightning quick moves. The four blades clashed together, spitting sparks and hissing like serpents—Anakin yawned.

Olin's agile wrist moved quickly, conjuring a cyclone of green light, and the Zabrak's blue lightsaber spun out of his hands. Olin then moved in between the duo to isolate the girl. As the surprised Zabrak reached out through the Force to summon his lightsaber back to his hand, Ferus's right leg shot out and slammed into the Zabrak's side, launching him into the sea of spectators as Olin simultaneously used the Force to hurl his opponent's lightsaber in the opposite direction.

Anakin felt the boredom begin to approach fatal heights. His vision began to blur, though he could just make out the human girl briefly regaining the offensive against the momentarily preoccupied Olin. She forced Ferus back three hasty steps before he disengaged, deactivated and tossed one of his lightsabers behind his head, dropped low, and kicked out, clipping her ankles and lifting her off her feet in a swift sequence of moves. As she hit the floor and elicited a surprise yelp, Ferus relieved her of her lightsaber with the Force, drew it to his now empty left hand, and pointed it downward—Anakin made note of the deliciously cruel sparring tactic: heaping further embarrassment on a defeated opponent by wielding their own weapon against them.

Still, it wasn't enough. Boredom and fatigue, working in tandem, overwhelmed his attention span. Anakin's eyes closed and his chin slipped off his hand just as his fellow Knights erupted in applause for Ferus.

The simultaneous movement and wall of noise jolted him awake, and he looked around spastically.

Master Drallig, short in height but broad shouldered, stepped onto the mat, clapping his hands enthusiastically.

"Excellent work, Ferus! And, you too, Aryana," Drallig beamed, glancing to the disappointed Zabrak, "Don't look so sour, Eliad, you handled yourself quite well. There's no shame in losing."

Anakin, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes with his fists, smirked at that. He certainly didn't know what it was like to lose. Nor did he intend on ever finding out.

Drallig waved Ferus and his defeated opponents off the mat and stepped further onto it. His hands clasped behind his back, he lowered his head as if in deep thought for several seconds. The spectators hushed and Anakin felt fatigue rally itself behind his eyes.

"Yes, great work, indeed," began Drallig. "But I think we can do better. I think we can do something more challenging." He paused again. "Though it is my fondest hope that none of you will ever need to experience this for yourselves, the truth is that a Jedi Knight may likely be pressed into active service in a war in defense of this great Republic. In these trying times, especially. There is a great deal of political unrest in the galaxy. The members of the separatist movement seem inclined to secede; the Republic Congress seems equally determined to prevent such an action. Though I don't know what the fulture holds, it is true that wars have been started for less."

He glanced around the dueling room, his eyes passing over his students.

"We Jedi number in the millions. The galactic population numbers in the quintillions. One needn't be an accountant droid to be able to deduce a simple mathematical certainty: we are outnumbered. In times past, Jedi Knights have waged war against armies in their billions. Many of us has died. Why?" He raised his hands and gestured broadly. "Because though we are mighty, we are not invincible. Sheer weight of numbers is something to which even the most powerful Jedi must ultimately yield. Which is why it is imperative that each and every Jedi Knight master his technique with the lightsaber, and with the Force, to be able to defend himself or herself from multiple adversaries simultaneously.

"The demonstration with Ferus, Aryana, and Eliad was impressive, but fighting two opponents is _nothing_ compared to what you may face. Before the defeat of the Sith a thousand years ago, it wasn't completely uncommon for Jedi Knight to face four or more Sith at once. These were warriors who disregarded any notion of honor or tradition when they dueled. When a Sith entered the fray, they would often do so with as many advantages as they could possibly gain. _That_, friends, is what made them so dangerous. Against such odds, how can even a Jedi hope to prevail?

"Even a Jedi of _your_ skills... Anakin Skywalker."

Anakin's eyes sprang open at the mention of his name. Drallig's knowing gaze met his startled one and the Master offered a genuine smile.

"I sensed a disturbance in the Force, my young apprentice: Your vision is at terrible risk... I think the glaze over your pretty brown eyes might crystallize."

Many of the students erupted in laughter and Anakin's lips curled into a smile. He gave an apologetic shrug.

"Apologies, Master. But, in my defense, your lectures are fairly boring."

"Oh, are they, young Skywalker?" Drallig made a show of putting his hands on his hips, the telltale sign of a father prepared to punish his delinquent son.

"Yeah, the rumor is that they're being recorded and developed as a form of sonic tranquilizer," said Anakin, slyly. "But some of the more paranoid Masters actually believe you're using the Force to induce comas through speech."

"Well, you should know by now that the Force is a pathway to many abilities that some consider to be unnatural."

"And _inhumane_," Anakin noted. "I'm sure if the Sith were still around, they'd go to great lengths to learn—"

"Oh, get off your arse, you insolent whelp," snapped Drallig in mock-anger. "If you humor me by being my test dummy for this little experiment, I'll spare you further speeches for the remainder of the day. Satisfied?"

"Yes, Master," placated Anakin, as he slowly rose to his feet. "Thank you, Master."

As Anakin stepped onto the mat and made his way towards Cin Drallig, the veteran teacher glanced around the room.

"I need some volunteers for this test: Six or seven young, able-bodied apprentices who wish to have the opportunity to hammer Anakin Skywalker into submission! Any takers?"

To Drallig's surprise and Anakin's amusement, nearly every hand in the room shot up at once. The Master turned to his smirking disciple.

"Well, I see you're popular as ever."


End file.
